Lifetime Guarantee
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Playthings tag story: When the tables are turned, Sam doesn't find it so easy to promise.


**Lifetime Guarantee**  
K Hanna Korossy

It was twenty-three days after Sam Winchester made his brother promise to kill him if necessary, that he realized just what he'd asked of Dean.

That was the day Dean asked him for the same thing.

00000

Sometimes they hunted because they wanted to, taking satisfaction in stamping out evil and saving people. Other times, they hunted because it was all they had.

The last few weeks had been a lot of the latter.

After leaving the Pierpoint Inn in Connecticut, they'd headed vaguely southward. A graveyard dog in Jersey. Bigfoot sighting in Maryland—a total bust. A revenant in Georgia. Sam researched, Dean kept watch, they both hunted. They didn't talk much, and Sam was by turns grateful and regretful for that.

They ended up in Florida despite Dean's avowal never to return to the state again after the last time, but the report of strange deaths was the most compelling lead they'd had in a while. People clawed to death in a suburban neighborhood by an animal with red eyes; Dean had actually grinned at the description. _Sounds like our kind of gig. _Sam hadn't argued.

He couldn't help notice, however, the first time Dean had really smiled in a long time, it was over the thought of a new hunt.

They'd done their research, narrowed their list of candidates: possessed animal—_Dude, why would a spirit or a demon bother with a wildcat?—_phantom cat, berserker, maybe a hellhound. _You get that one, Sam—we already know they like you. _Armed with half their arsenal, they'd staked out a likely spot in the neighborhood and waited.

And waited.

"Sam, I swear, if I have to sit here another hour and wave to June Cleaver over there watering her flowers…"

"Quit whining, Dean. You're not the one who's all folded up."

"Well, that's 'cause you've got stilts instead of legs. Shouldn't have fed you all those SpaghettiOs when you were a kid."

Despite his weariness, Sam cracked a small grin. "So, it's all your fault."

Dean opened his mouth, realized he was in a no-win situation, and threw Sam a halfhearted glare. "I liked you better when you were five."

Sam's humor faded. "Things were simpler," he agreed softly. Dad was alive, Dean could do anything, and the only thing special about Sam was that he could cross his eyes.

Dean stiffened next to him, jaw probably ground tight, eyes dark. Sam didn't need to look to know he was wearing the expression Sam had seen a lot of those last few weeks.

Yeah, he didn't really feel like talking about it, either.

The local school bus drove up, depositing a handful of elementary school kids on the corner in front of them. A few gave them curious looks; one cheerful little girl waved. Sam smiled and waved back.

Dean just sighed and shifted his gaze out the side window. Tapped on the steering wheel. Reached for the radio.

"If you turn that on, I _will_ kill you and bury you in Mrs. Cleaver's flowerbed," Sam grimly promised.

Dean's glare could have cut steel, but he retracted his hand. He slid it up and down his jeans instead. Buffed some imaginary dirt off the dashboard. Started humming.

Sam grit his teeth and turned deliberately to look out his own window.

And saw…

"Dean."

"Aw, c'mon, I can't even—"

"No, look. Is that…?"

Dean must have looked, because the next thing Sam knew, his brother had bit out a curse, vinyl squeaking as he sat up. Then he was out the door, Sam a half-second behind him.

Florida was pretty flat, and Silver Springs was no exception. The houses were laid out in perfect squares, thus the spaces between them offered glimpses of rows of homes on the streets behind. Allowing them to see the flash of something large and dark two streets over.

Sam's legs ate up the distance faster than Dean's, but Dean's power and endurance won over the long haul. By the time they reached the right street, vaulting over fences and shrubs, startling one old guy watering his lawn and a pair of kids on a backyard swing, Dean was in the lead. Sam nearly ran into him when his brother skidded to a stop, barely breathing hard, and swiveled his head to find their quarry.

"You see it?"

Sam was looking, too. The street appeared identical to the one where they'd left the Impala, and just as quiet. A few kids arriving from school were trudging along the sidewalk, and a truck was delivering some large appliance two houses down. But no…

"Sam."

Dean's clipped voice drew Sam's attention instantly, and he followed his brother's gaze to the house just opposite the one getting the delivery. The house where the front door stood open, seemingly splintered.

They pelted down the street.

Sam reached the porch first this time, and he instantly slowed, speed switched out for caution. They'd do no good to any potential victims if they were attacked, too. He slid his hand under the back of his jacket and closed it around the grip of his handgun, then crept inside, senses on full alert. Dean mirrored his actions behind him.

There was no sign of disturbance in the foyer of the house. Sam was just starting to straighten up out of his defensive crouch when a woman screamed upstairs, followed by a heavy thud and shatter.

He flew up the stairs, Dean a step behind him.

They slowed once more, on high alert, guns drawn. Sam's held silver, Dean's blessed iron. They also had holy water, salt, a few knives, and some carefully copied rituals secreted between them. But they'd probably only need the guns.

Down the hall on the left, a woman moaned, "Oh, God."

Dean's hand pressed Sam's back for a silent second, conveying everything necessary, and then they were crashing into the room, Sam high, Dean low, guns aimed.

A woman cowered in the corner of the room, her dress torn and bloodied. The large black wildcat in front of her dwarfed her in size and menace. Sam felt his throat dry as the sleek head turned at their entrance and regarded them with cool red eyes. Sam gulped, slowed his heartbeat, and aimed for center mass.

The cat moved incredibly fast.

It lunged toward Sam before he could do more than register that he was now aiming at the unobstructed victim, and pull his shot. It hit the ceiling harmlessly. The creature howled in fury at the sound and pounced.

Dean's pair of shots sent it skidding to the side, impacted more by physics than pain.

"Doesn't work on it," was all Sam could get out even though he knew Dean would have figured out the same thing. Maybe silver would hurt it, but the cat was too close, its bulk already bearing down again on Sam as he reaimed and fired. This time the yowl had pain in it, but it didn't stop the thing's momentum, coming straight for him.

Until Dean shoved Sam out of the way.

His gut twisted into a tight knot as he slammed back into the wall and watched his brother disappear under a few hundred pounds of wildcat. Dean's startled cry was lost under the cat's scream, and Sam winced at the sound even as he brought the gun up and, in one smoothly furious move, aimed and fired at the center of the creature's body.

It screamed again, twisting in its attack to fix Sam with those hellish eyes.

The next shot went right between them.

Sam saw it fall with grim satisfaction, knowing already from the boneless drop the thing was dead. It toppled away from Dean, at least, leaving him sprawled and gasping on the floor. Sam glanced at the woman, who bore only a few scratches on her legs, then the lifeless ball of fur, and finally went to his brother.

"You okay?" he asked with concern. The obvious answer was no: there was blood on Dean's chest and right arm, his shirt sliced across his biceps, and his face strained and pale. But he nodded immediately and held out a hand for Sam to pull him up.

He did, gently, his other hand going at once to Dean's elbow to make sure he didn't go right back down again. Dean winced with the movement but gave Sam a weak smile, patting his shoulder. _I'm all right._

That was when the woman behind them screamed.

Sam whirled, feeling Dean also fall into a defensive crouch. But there was no enemy. Nothing but…

A bloody and naked and very dead man stretched across the floor where the creature had been.

It took a second for the realization to sink in, but when it did, it took Sam's heart with it. Not possessed or a cryptid. A werecat. He looked frantically at Dean. "Did it bite you?"

Dean was already pulling at his shirt.

Sam added his efforts, tearing the t-shirt in his haste. The arm was definitely clawed, but Dean's chest…

A half-ring of torn puncture wounds bled over Dean's collarbone and breast.

Sam closed his eyes, gripping his brother's arm tightly, then opened them to meet Dean's eyes. Turmoil-laced hazel stared back at him unwaveringly.

"Let's finish this and get out of here," Dean finally said in a gruff whisper, gently disengaging himself from Sam's grip. He was pulling his shirt back on, folding his jacket over himself to hide the blood as he went to talk to the woman still pressed against the wall. Usually that was Sam's job, but he wasn't strong enough to pull off the comforting_nothing happened here_ routine, and the only one of them strong enough to clean up the scene.

But he couldn't remember feeling so weak before, drained and weary and hopeless.

A body was a body, but it was also a trespasser, a large, solidly built male in a woman's house. The police would be suspicious and careful and would want to know about the two men who'd broken in when they'd heard the victim scream and shot the intruder, but they'd eventually have no choice but to accept the story. The Winchesters would be gone by then, but there was no point in leaving unnecessary evidence behind. Sam pocketed the shells, wiped their prints, smeared a footprint left in blood. It was the best they could do in a lousy situation, but at least the family of the shifter would know his fate.

As if that were any comfort.

He dragged Dean away from the crying woman when he heard the distant sound of sirens, and they were one street over when the first black-and-whites pulled up. He didn't let go of Dean until they reached the car and collapsed into the seat, Dean in the passenger side, arm pressed against his ribs, both of them staring out the front windshield.

"Dean…," Sam finally breathed.

"Not now, Sam." Quietly but firmly.

He hesitated, nodded. Turned the motor over and pulled away from the curb, from the perfect little neighborhood.

Into a future that terrified him more than ever.

00000

They worked in silence. Sam made sure Dean was sure-footed and heading toward their room before he turned to the trunk. Dean had been injured by shifters twice before, fought off a transformation once. He could do it again, and Sam still had the materials.

Inside the room, he shut the door behind him. A glance at his brother revealed Dean sitting on the edge of his bed and gingerly shrugging out of his clothing. Sam went into the bathroom, gathering supplies.

Back in the room, Dean was stripped to the waist now, examining his injuries dispassionately. Sam pulled a chair up next to the bed and said softly, "Lie down."

Dean obeyed without a word. He hadn't looked Sam in the eye since the house.

Sam tied a hand towel around the clawed arm to stop the bleeding, slid another towel under Dean's shoulder, then concentrated on the bite mark. It was barely oozing now, puffy and bruised and looking like a hundred other innocuous injuries they'd collected in their lives. Sam knew better.

"Hang on," he whispered, watching as Dean's hand wrapped around a handful of bedding.

Sam swallowed and poured the holy water.

It reminded him of the hydrogen peroxide they'd used when he was a kid, bubbling and burning as it cleansed. Dean clenched against the pain, a grunt making it past his lips. "Almost over, hang on…" Sam chanted. "Almost done…"

The bubbling ended, the water running pink-tainted but smooth over the puncture wounds now, and Dean relaxed with a sigh. Sam blotted up the extra water, gentle around the ragged skin, eyes flicking up to Dean's as his brother stared at the ceiling.

"I'm going to put some wolfsbane on it," Sam said.

Dean didn't answer, gaze unwavering.

Sam poured a little of the holy water into one of their complementary glasses and added a heavy sprinkle of the crushed herb, followed by several others. This had done the trick the last time, along with killing the shifter. But Dean hadn't been bitten that time, only bled.

The poultice was a nice puce color and stank, but Sam didn't hesitate to scoop it up with the toothbrush handle he was using as a stirrer and spread it lightly over the puncture wounds, making sure the mix went into each hole. Dean's breathing grew irregular, his knuckles white around the bunched bedspread, but he didn't make a sound.

Sam preferred the colorful swearing and occasional groan to this.

He finished by taping a large square of gauze over it all, hiding the damage, then moved on to the arm. These slashes ironically looked far worse and went deeper, for all their lack of seriousness. Still, they would hurt worse, too, and Sam stopped to unwind Dean's fingers from the bedspread to clasp them around Sam's thigh instead. It gave him better access to the arm, and if the contact gave Dean any comfort, Sam would take the bruises willingly. His brother's hand curled around his leg in tacit acceptance.

Sam bit his lip and went to work.

Dean's eyes fluttered at one point, but he remained stubbornly conscious throughout, if gasping by the end. He was shivering as Sam set the last stitches, sweaty and heavy-lidded. Sam wrapped the limb in gauze, then sat back, sliding his hand down to Dean's. The fingers were almost embedded in his flesh, cramping Sam's leg from the knee up, but he made no move to loosen Dean's grip, just settled his bloodstained clasp over Dean's clammy one.

"All done."

One jerky nod to acknowledge him. Dean's attention to the ceiling rivaled Sam's after one of his nightmares. Sam slipped his fingers into the grooves between his brother's.

"I'll get you some painkillers," he said with helpless softness.

"I'm good." Dean's loosening grasp tightened fractionally again, saying otherwise.

Sam didn't move, content to sit there as long as it took. At least here he could _do_something.

Dean swallowed. "It wasn't even night."

Yeah, he'd been thinking about that, too. "Not all animorphs are on a lunar cycle, Dean, you know that," Sam responded.

"So…what, there's no way of predicting when…"

Sam closed his eyes. God, this was so hard. And he'd thought their recent conversation had been painful. But there was an honesty now, with no denial to hide behind, that hadn't been there between them since Connecticut, maybe not even then. "Some shifters change at will, but I don't think that's the case with this one."

Dean frowned at the ceiling. "How…?"

Sam hurried on. "Dean, these attacks _were_ cyclical. Three in one week, then three weeks of nothing? There are a lot of cycles out there, man: tidal, astrological, weather, biological. I'm guessing this one's a tidal-lunar one based on the twenty-nine day pattern."

Dean snorted faintly. "Geek," he whispered.

Sam's vision suddenly clouded, his throat tight. "You shouldn't've jumped in front of me."

Dean didn't even dignify that one with a response. Sam hadn't really expected him to. "So, three weeks, huh?" he got instead a handful of seconds later.

"Yeah, about. I can figure it out exactly."

Dean nodded, still not looking at him.

Sam's voice dropped. "Dean, we're not out of options. The wolfsbane might have worked already, and if not, there are other things we can try. We're not giving up—_I'm_ not giving up on this."

Dean didn't hesitate. "Yeah, I know," he answered. There was belief in his tone, but no hope. His eyes cut over to Sam's, moved away again. "But if it doesn't work…"

And that was when irony hit with all the force of a steam engine. Dean wouldn't say it in so many words; he didn't have to. They both knew what he was asking.

Dean's head rolled tiredly toward him, eyes alert but deep, churning with dark emotion. "Sammy, you made me promise," he said with incongruous softness.

Sam blinked hard, looking away to get his emotions back under control. He lost himself for a long minute in the swirled wallpaper, until he was able to beat back the darkest of his thoughts, to breathe again. His eyes still stung as he cleared his throat and nodded, finally turning back to his brother. Sam almost pulled off the smile. "You know, I think I'm ready to take that break now."

Dean's brows crept down a fraction in puzzlement.

Sam's wobbly smile grew. "It's about time we saw the Grand Canyon, don't you think?"

Dean stared at him a long moment, like he was trying to read Sam's mind. The flicker of amusement that flashed through his face made Sam flush—yeah, irony was a bitch—but the contemplation he met boldly. Let Dean see what he would; Sam was through hiding. There wasn't time to be subtle anymore.

The murk of pain seemed to lift from Dean's eyes, leaving them an impenetrable forest green. He finally nodded, lids sliding shut as his head rolled back. "Okay."

"Okay," Sam whispered.

He stayed there until Dean slipped deeply under and his grip slackened enough that Sam could slide out from under it. Then he limped into the bathroom so he could let the tears come without disturbing his brother's sleep.

00000

"Dude, it's a big hole in the ground."

From anyone else, that might have been an expression of disappointment, but Sam grinned at the awe in Dean's voice. He and Jess had been here once, and Sam hadn't been that impressed the first time, but he tried to see it now through his brother's eyes, marveling again that a guy who didn't even blink at a zombie or a vampire was still so fascinated by more natural wonders. It wasn't the first time Sam mused about what Dean would have done with his life if a demon and John Winchester hadn't set his path for him at the age of four.

Guided tours weren't their thing, but Dean read every write-up and brochure that was offered about the canyon, then they spent the rest of the day exploring on their own, hiking part of the way down. The real smile that lit Dean's face at the sights made Sam wonder why they hadn't done this before despite having talked about it several times. His own spirits sank at the thought. Because, it wasn't potentially their last weeks together then. Even all the possibilities they'd discussed when Dean had been electrocuted had been forgotten after his healing.

Winchesters always had to do everything the hard way.

Sam had worked the math: They had just over twenty days. Their window would close at six thirty-five the last evening, right around sundown. Sam didn't miss the metaphor.

After the Grand Canyon, it was Sam's turn to choose a destination. He picked Disneyland. Dean teased him about it the whole way. And, naturally, ended up loving Tomorrowland and the Indiana Jones Adventure.

Dean chose Tijuana next, two days Sam had hazy memories of, but that he was pretty sure included copious amounts of Tequila, a lot of tall stories, and a girl named Rita who, thankfully, was interested only in his brother. Dean didn't seem to mind, and grinned smugly the whole next day on the road.

In between stops, they talked about everything except the future: baseball and women and food, childhood escapades and Sam's school years and what Dean remembered about their mom. Sometimes they just sat and drove and listened to Dean's music, and that was good, too.

Sam decided they should visit Bobby after that, and while Dean grew quiet at the choice, he didn't argue. They weren't about to make this a farewell tour—neither of them even mentioned the roadhouse or Cassie or the few dozen other people they could almost call friends scattered around the country—but Bobby was different. And neither of them commented when Sam spent most of the visit sequestered with Bobby's books, while Dean and the older hunter drank and swapped stories and went on a rat shoot.

In fact, Sam was pretty sure Dean noticed that each of the places he selected also happened to be near a major occult library or collection. Maybe this was their _Things to Do Before I Die_ vacation, but Sam wasn't giving up. He wasn't even remotely near accepting. There wasn't enough time, and what there was he wanted to spend with Dean. But every free minute and most nights were devoted to books and manuscripts. Dean was still alive, and Sam wasn't about to let that change without the fiercest battle he'd ever fought.

And he knew Dean knew it, caught the flickers of recognition, but his brother didn't say a thing. He'd been there before, himself, and he got it.

Besides, Sam couldn't bear to look at a gun right now.

They hit Washington, DC, afterward, taking time to see some of the museums they'd only heard about, then the beach, then Atlantic City and Cooperstown. Dean's injuries healed to barely visible. He looked healthy, smiled more than Sam had seen since their dad had died.

Sixteen days passed before he even realized it.

Four days remained. It wasn't enough. Damn it all, it was never enough.

It was Sam's turn again, and he knew there were no more libraries left, nothing but the dozen possible treatments he'd recorded in his journal, half of them old wives' tales, none of them guaranteed. There was nothing to do now but wait and see, and be with Dean.

Sam picked Pastor Jim's old house—Dean's now—out in the middle of nowhere, and Dean just nodded and turned the car west.

They didn't need to discuss it to know it would be their last stop.

00000

Spring came late to Minnesota. Dean went to chop wood almost as soon as they got there, while Sam unpacked and started dinner. There was a simple comfort in cooking for the two of them, and while the fried pork chops and coal-fired potatoes weren't anything special, they were good. Even if Sam hadn't really been tasting his food for days.

They sat around the fire after, Dean playing with an old guitar he'd found in Jim's stuff, Sam flipping idly through his journal.

"I'm going to need some supplies," he finally said.

Dean nodded, head bent over the instrument. His hair had grown a little longer than Sam was used to seeing, and he liked the more relaxed look.

"There's some kind of fair the next town over tomorrow," Sam continued, fingers lingering on the pages that held the only hope he had left.

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, maybe." The guitar needed new strings, but there just wasn't_time_.

Sam swallowed. "Anything you want to do here?"

Another shrug. "Thought maybe I'd wash the car, tune her up."

Sam couldn't help smile. Only Dean would choose that as one of his last… He shook his head. "Can I help?"

A sidelong glance. "Sure. You remember anything I showed you when we were rebuilding her?"

"Not really."

"Perfect, then you won't try anything stupid."

Sam snorted a laugh.

Somehow it turned into a sob.

Dean glanced up at him, then back down at the guitar, but his body language had shifted. "I talked to Bobby about…you know, after."

"About what?" Sam asked with sudden dread.

Dean's hands stilled on the instrument. "He's gonna hunt with you."

"What!" Had he just been…willed to someone else?

Dean straightened. "I never believed, not for a second, that you were gonna go all Darth Vader on me, Sammy. But I know you're worried about the whole 'destiny' thing, so I figured if I couldn't be here to keep an eye on you, be your backup plan, then I trust Bobby to. I mean, he's no me, but then, nobody is." He cracked a wan grin.

Sam wanted to throw a temper tantrum, he really did. Scream, beat on the floor, curse his brother for not keeping his promises. That, or maybe make a dramatic exit, just stand up and walk out without saying a word. He might have at least done that another day, given Dean the cold shoulder until his brother took it back. But there was no time, and Dean…Dean was worried about him, in a way he wasn't even worried for himself.

"Dean…" Sam didn't even know what to say, his voice cracked and ragged.

Dean instantly sobered. "Look, he knows all about our…deal, and I made him swear it was a last resort, okay? But he'll do it if it comes down to it, and he's the only one I trust to make sure it doesn't come down to it. So just…let him watch your back, Sam, all right? Please." Dean looked at him with a steady, earnest gaze.

Sam couldn't have spoken if he'd wanted to. It was suddenly hard to breathe under the crushing weight of what was coming. What was he supposed to say to this: It wouldn't be necessary? That no one could replace Dean? Pointless. It was all pointless if he couldn't fix this.

He would fix this. He had to. Sam couldn't accept any other outcome right now.

But Dean needed this far more than Sam did, to know he wasn't abandoning his little brother unprotected, and this Sam could do for him. He nodded jerkily.

"Good," Dean said, nodding back. "And if you ever let him drive my car, dead or not, I swear I'm coming back to kick your ass."

Sam sputtered a laugh. "Good to know." He let the silence settle for a moment. "Was it like this the time with you and Dad, waiting?" The time he and Dean had tangled with a shifter, the cure had worked almost instantly. But years before that, Sam had been at Stanford, blissfully oblivious, while Dean and John waited to see if Dean had been bitten by a werewolf or merely mauled.

A small pause, then Dean shook his head. "No." The clipped tone and the way his eyes slid away said the rest, and Sam let it drop.

A minute later, they were arguing about who the better driver was.

It took Sam a long time to fall asleep that night, even listening to Dean breathing. But when he finally did, for the first in a long time, he didn't dream.

00000

They went to the fair the next day, where Dean found a buxom country girl to go "see the sights with," from which he returned smirking and declaring he could die happy now. Sam just groaned.

They cleaned out one sharpshooter booth of stuffed animals until they were blacklisted from all the fair kiosks, and ended up giving away their booty to passing kids. Dean got a single mom's phone number out of that one, too, which he pocketed with a shrug. "Maybe next week," was all he said to Sam, and Sam didn't argue. He kept one animal, though, a frog small enough to cram into his pocket without Dean seeing.

Then they proceeded to ride rides and eat junk food until Sam got sick behind one of the tents. Dean made a few utterly unsympathetic suggestions and observations, before kneeling down with Sam and rubbing his back.

Two days were left.

Sam nearly shortened that considerably when Dean made him an omelet the following morning to calm his queasy stomach and hid a few hot peppers in it.

Jokes about killing each other really weren't funny anymore.

They washed the car, and Sam was allowed to wax the rear side panels where it wouldn't show so much. Even so, Dean swung by every five minutes to critique his performance, until Sam finally threw the rag at him and stomped back inside. He returned a minute later with a book, settled himself against the nearest porch strut, and kept an eye on Dean while he read. He didn't remember one word of it later.

One day.

Ironically, it was the day they spent the most time apart since Dean had been bitten. The elder Winchester went for a long walk, and Sam let him go, needing time to make preparations, memorize a few lines of Latin, and _think._

They ate lunch together, played a game of Monopoly in which Dean cleaned up even though Sam hadn't been trying to let him win, watched _Lethal Weapon _from Pastor Jim's surprising DVD collection, which Dean kept interrupting with lame knock-knock jokes. If they sat so close that their legs were brushing, neither of them commented on it.

They skipped dinner. When the mantel clock struck six, the coldness in Sam's gut congealed into a hard ball. Dean looked at him, gave him a small but real smile.

"It's time."

"Yeah." Sam started to get up, was stopped by Dean's hand. From somewhere, his brother had drawn a handgun, and he held it out to Sam.

"Silver bullets."

He'd known that already. Sam's face twisted, but he took the gun.

Dean patted his leg, then they got up slowly and went into the bedroom in silence.

It would have, Sam had to admit even under these circumstances, looked…_questionable_ to someone who'd just walked in the door. The soft cuffs attached to the bed were from a sex shop in DC, one Sam had, red-faced, asked his brother to go into alone. Dean had nearly collapsed in laughter despite knowing what he was buying the equipment for. Now, he tossed Sam another smirk, but there was sober apology behind it, too.

"So, how do we do this?" he stopped and asked Sam.

It still sounded kinky, but all levity had been stripped from Sam's thoughts. "Take your socks and shoes off," he said quietly, and ducked away to check his materials again. He set the gun on the nearby dresser.

Sam turned back to the bed to find Dean flat on his back. Sam's eyes kept darting to his face and away again as he started buckling the cuffs around his brother's ankles. He expected some sort of lascivious tease or at least a leer, but Dean had sobered completely, his eyes following Sam as he worked. He was instantly ashamed at the cheap thought. There was a quiet electricity in the room, and not from the coming deadline.

He tied his brother's legs down in a loose spread-eagle but had decided there was no need for the same for his arms. The transformation window should be nearly five hours long, and if Dean had to stay in that position that long, it would be painfully uncomfortable. Besides whatever he faced during those five hours. Sam finally bound one wrist, threaded the rope under the bed, and affixed it to the other wrist. It left Dean's arms out to his sides and immobile but not stretched above his head.

"Does that feel okay?" Sam asked as he leaned back to check his work, and Dean's reaction.

Dean pulled a little on the restraints and nodded. "I'm good."

Sam gave him a tiny smile and turned to drag the small table he'd piled with his supplies over to the side of the bed.

"Sammy…"

Dean sounded rough for the first time, and Sam quickly swung back. His brother stared hard at him with dark eyes.

"You know…?"

He nodded. "Yeah, man, I do. Same here."

Dean jerked his head once. "So long as we're clear."

Shifter injury. Electrocution. Poisoning. Each time, there was less to say. They were clear.

Six thirty-three.

Still, it seemed to Sam like he should say something. Something pithy and poignant and maybe funny that would sum up twenty-three years of being brothers. Nothing came to mind.

"Hey, Sam. Thanks."

That actually did it just fine. Sam nodded, not trusting his voice, and Dean suddenly grinned.

"See you on the other side." He closed his eyes.

Sam tried to settle his breathing. Maybe this was still all for nothing. They'd treated the bite with wolfsbane and holy water, killed the infector. Maybe it had been enough, and in a few minutes, or maybe a half-hour to be safe, Sam would be letting Dean out while they both laughed shakily and forgot about the close call.

And then Dean jerked on the bed.

Sam felt the blood drain out of his face even as his hands began to move. It had started.

He had the rituals on index cards, like a high schooler reviewing for a midterm. He would have to try them in turn and as quickly as possible, tossing each failure aside and going on.

Wolfsbane and angelica in oil applied to hands and feet and forehead.

Dean cried out.

_Flip._

A medieval chant to protect from alteration.

Dean tensed against the cuffs, groaning Sam's name, something that sounded like _hurry._ He screwed his eyes tightly shut.

_Flip._

Holy oil and hyssop rubbed on the skin.

Dean's muscles rolled and stretched under Sam's fingers, making him recoil. Dean screamed again, arching. "Sam! It's not working. I can…can feel…"

Sam ignored him and the tears in both their eyes.

Violent_ flip._

Absinthe paste, applied to the forehead, with accompanying blessing.

"Please," Dean gasped, "Please, Sammy, just…" He was sobbing. "It's not working, I can't… Just…just do it, Sammy…please, please…"

He didn't mean the ritual. Sam choked, eyes flicking to the gun and away again. He couldn't.

Suddenly, Dean was straining toward Sam's hand, teeth bared. Green irises compressed into reflective ovals, and the next time he growled Sam's name, it was nearly unintelligible.

Sam grit his teeth.

_Slam._

An ancient Church ritual, Latin and candles and Sam's shaking hands nearly fumbling the matches.

Dean's curses and pleas were running together into a rumble that no longer sounded human, and he thrashed on the bed, stretching the limits of the cuffs, _stretching_.

Sam barely got the last few words out, heart breaking with every syllable.

_Flip._

Another ritual, with similar roots, this one just two lines of Latin. If this didn't work, bleeding Dean was next. Sam gasped and tumbled over the words he'd memorized but still read.

Dean suddenly fell back to the bed, panting.

Sam's eyes rose from the card, eyes wide as he continued to recite. Was this…?

His brother's chest was heaving, his eyes screwed shut, muscles still flexing unnaturally. But he wasn't straining anymore at his bonds, wasn't getting worse.

Sam rushed through the chant, then paused.

Dean bucked again, yanking at the restraints. He cried out hoarsely.

Sam flinched. That couldn't be all, could it? He frantically started the chant again from the the beginning. _In nomine Dei…_

Dean groaned, humanly, and slumped against the mattress.

Was this it? Not a chant to turn back the transformation taint, but to ward it off by its recitation? He'd heard of such things but never come across one before.

Sam finished the lines again, immediately starting over.

Dean was flushed and slick with sweat, head rolling on the pillow, but he wasn't changing, wasn't _becoming_.

Sam dropped the cards and approached the bed in an almost daze, lips moving automatically over the words that were suddenly the most important thing he knew.

He tentatively reached for Dean's arm, feeling muscles strain and spasm under the skin but no longer twist and ripple. Sam moved his hand up to Dean's face, lifting one lid carefully. A glazed, uncomprehending eye stared at him, the iris barely visible around the huge pupil, but both of them round.

Sam's hand trembled as he drew back, eyes stinging. But he didn't stop reciting.

After a minute, he started rubbing Dean's arm again, purposefully massaging this time, trying to ease the tension on tortured muscles. Dean seemed to relax a little at the touch, but he was too lost in his fight to respond. Sam just hoped his brother knew on some level it was him.

He kept talking until his voice cracked, but pausing for a quick sip of water sent Dean whiplashing off the bed with another scream. Sam didn't stop again after that, even when he had to drop his voice to a whisper in order to be able to keep going.

He talked through nightfall, through Dean's fading struggles, through the begging that was now nothing more than an occasional slurred "please" or murmur of Sam's name, through trying to ease Dean's pain until Sam's own shoulders and hands ached. He'd keep going as long as he had to.

And when he'd completely lost track of time, seemingly trapped in this hell forever, his phone beeped a quiet alarm. Time was up; the transformation window was closed.

Sam raised burning eyes to Dean's face.

It didn't happen instantly, but it happened. A little at a time, peace crept over Dean just as the violence had. Sam's whisper trailed off and stopped, but Dean kept relaxing by degrees into the sweat-soaked sheets, muscles unlocking one at a time, face slowly smoothing out.

Oh, _God._ Please let it be over.

Dean muttered something incoherent, head dipping to the side.

That broke his indecision. Sam leaned down to unbuckle the cuffs, gentle with the inevitably chafed wrists and ankles, shushing Dean like a baby as he worked. He pulled the saturated t-shirt off and toweled dry the still-heaving chest, lax arms, spiky hair. Dean wasn't unconscious, but he was utterly drained, limp in Sam's grasp as he lifted his brother to deposit him on his own clean and dry bed. Dean lay heavily, respirations dragging and hitching as if it took all he had to keep it going, limbs twitching with aftereffects.

Sam covered him up to his shoulders, leaving one hand out that he could hold on to, because he'd never needed to hold on to something so badly before. "It's over, man. It's over," he whispered.

It took him a moment to realize Dean's eyes had slitted open and that Sam's hand was being dragged upward by fractions of inches. Up to Dean's chest, over his heart, which had almost calmed from its earlier frantic pounding now. Then his eyes shut again.

Sam sank down on the floor, his arm fully stretched to keep from sliding out of Dean's grasp, bowed his head to the mattress, and wept.

00000

The next transformation window was eighteen hours later, and Dean mercifully slept through Sam restraining him again. He would do this every time for the rest of their lives if necessary, but Sam was terrified of the possibility. He sat, waiting, hands clenched, the chant that was burned into his brain on the tip of his tongue.

But nothing happened. Dean didn't even stir as the minutes ticked by. Sam finally untied him.

Half-open eyes were watching him with questionable awareness when he finished and pulled back.

"S'over?"

"It's over," Sam said gently. "You're clean."

An exhausted attempt at a grin. "Not gonna let me…die in peace," Dean slurred.

"Not gonna let you die at all," Sam whispered.

A soft huff of sound. Dean's eyes closed. "Pain in the…" The words died as his breathing slowed and deepened.

Sam watched him a moment, then crawled into his own bed, asleep before he settled.

They slept a lot after that. Ate Campbell's and thawed biscuits Sam had found in the freezer. Watched the fire and slept some more and didn't talk, but didn't leave each other's sight, either.

One more transformation window passed uneventfully. Sam took the cuffs and the concoctions and the cards out into the back afterward and burned them.

Then the third day, Dean made a crack about Sam's culinary skills and, just like that, things were back to normal. Or as close as they got to normal.

Sam wasted no time short-sheeting his brother's bed.

00000

By the end of the week, they had a new hunt.

"We could stay here, you know," Dean said with a hint of wistfulness as they sat out on the porch, watching the sun set on their last night there. "Let the fight come to us instead of us going after it all the time."

Sam's head was tilted back against the rough wood of the porch railing, now decorated with a small, stuffed green frog. Pastor Jim had taught him a lot of lessons while he'd sat right there, but some he'd had to learn on his own. "I can't do that, Dean," he said softly.

A sigh. "Yeah, I know."

Sam stirred, having to say it because, well, he had to, and he was ornery. "You could always—"

"Shut up, Sam," came the mild reply.

Yeah, he'd kinda figured.

Some kin to a loon—he'd known all the native animals once—called through the settling silence. Sam let the sound die before angling his gaze at Dean.

"I'm sorry that I made you promise."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Seriously?"

"Oh, I'm not letting you out of it," Sam said quickly. "Dean, I need to know you won't let it happen."

"I won't let it happen," Dean said flatly.

"Okay. I'm counting on that, man, all right? I just needed to know, just in case. But…I'm sorry I made you promise." More than his own terror, more than seeing Dean's agony as he fought the transformation, Sam would never forget his brother's desperate pleas.

A few beats of quiet. "Well, I guess I have to forgive you, you saving my life and all."

Sam couldn't hold back a grin at that.

Dean looked at him dead-sober. "But I don't like being in debt. I'm gonna return the favor, Sam."

He nodded. "I know," Sam said softly.

He didn't, really. But Dean was promising. And, really, you weren't supposed to be able to stop a transformation once it had begun, especially with a chant that hadn't worked for others in the past.

At that moment, Sam believed everything was possible.

**The End**


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